


the last two tigers

by bellepeppertronix



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellepeppertronix/pseuds/bellepeppertronix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Chau can get anything--if the right person is asking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the last two tigers

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone is playing Chau as either a complete soft-touch or a total monster hardass. I decided to pitch it down the middle, with him behaving the same way, I think, the mobsters in the 1920s would--swinging wildly back and forth between acting good and actually being very, very bad. (Even Al Capone donated to charities--and also had people shot on a pretty regular basis, was a bootlegger, and ran brothels.)  
> What I've noticed about this--which I think is interesting and gives men like this a weirdly maudlin bent--is that they usually have some kind of in, some area where, while they're normally vile, stone-hearted monsters, they decide to be Nice, with Sprinkles on Top.  
> Word of God (Ron Perlman, in this case) points out that he's paying his workers nothing. I decided to flip that into him believing (or telling himself) that of COURSE he's not paying them money--he's letting them (and their families) stay with him, offering them protection from kaiju attacks, and food, in exchange for them working for him.  
> Also there is only a ship present if you squint REALLY hard. But I hope you like it, either way!

He operares out of Ginza, in the beginning.   
He doesn't have any competition, at first, because he's just one more white man, some ex-military weirdo who Knew Somebody who _Knew Somebody_.  
Before all the fuckery of the kaiju war, he spends his time peaceably hawking lions and tigers (and yes, sometimes bears) to Russian mafiosos and rich yakuza who want to show off. Those had been the golden days, when his places had more or less been zoos. And he doesn't go for that cut-rate shit, keeping animals in wire-bottomed cages so small they can't move, caked in their own shit and vomit. Every storefront hides a different kind of habitat. His lions and tigers--all procured and intended as gifts for rich businessmen--eat nothing but beef steak. He has a special blend of nuts and seeds flown in monthly from the Amazon to feed all his parrots.  
He is a serious businessman--has to be, after all, seeing as how roughly half his Japanese clientele are actually high-ranking corporate types who want live animals and not pieces of dead ones. He's lost count of how many golden monkeys, sand-cats, and even dolphin calves he's sent home with clients, to be given again as gifts to girlfriends, wives, or spoiled daughters.  
All that goes to shit when Onibaba trashes the place.  
The animal trade dries up. He sells his tigers--his lovely sleek Bengals and his plump-faced, seductive Siberians--to private collectors at cut-rate prices, and practically has to _give_ the parrots away to make a profit. No more cracked palm-nuts for Polly, not where most of _them_ went.  
The silence in his storehouses annoys him too much, though. His business peddling various psychoactive substances is starting to fail, too. No one has money to get high when they are lining up for stamps on their bread ration cards.   
He makes an offhanded remark to the client who buys his last two tigers--his last Siberians--asking him, obliquely, how he plans to move them.  
The man looks flatly confused. It doesn't seem to have occurred to him that he won't just be able to fling money in the direction of a pilot and just have his stuff flown overland, or even floated on a boat, if he needed it.  
But the kaiju attacks tend to make all forms of travel especially hazardous, and no one--well, damn near no one--is willing to carry an extra eight hundred pounds' worth of passenger who can't pay, and sometimes has the rather alarming propensity to try to eat their handlers.  
Hannibal Chau, however, is Hannibal Chau. He'd once gotten a one-ton shipment of ivory from Africa to China--inside PIANO BOXES. He still likes to think of that and chuckle, sometimes, to make himself feel better after hearing about another of his storehouses near the docks being obliterated in a kaiju attack, or when another ship transporting some of his goods is downed.  
Literally overnight, his business goes from selling fancy pets to rich people, to forging paperwork for those same rich people to get the hell out of Japan. And he is good at what he does; to the best of his knowledge, none of his clients ever get caught or stopped.  
It is great--until the goddamned kaiju start attacking any city big enough to be called a city, and it quickly becomes obvious that fleeing was becoming pointless.  
But he's had the sense to diversify. When Tokyo goes almost completely under, he jumps ship, and--though everyone calls him suicidal and stupid--goes to Hong Kong.  
By then, his paper business is doing so well he's taken over a handful of old storefronts, places that sold shit like pickled boar brains, dragon's blood, and tiger bone powder. (Inwardly, he'd cringed at the thought. He can still see, in his mind, his white Bengals pacing in lacy circles in their brass-barred enclosures, his russet-orange Siberians lazing on the polished-concrete floors.)  
Back then, no one had known a damn thing about kaiju blue poisoning. Everyone was scrambling for cures, hospitals so choked that people who were injured usually died screaming on the sidewalk, their lungs seared from the inside, the toxic blue ooze blistering their skin.  
Pharmaceutical prices spring up so fast it isn't funny. Little traditional herbalist shops and botanicas are suddenly doing really, really well, too--mostly because only one out of every hundred people or so can afford actual prescribed drugs. And half the time, the prescribed medical stuff for kaiju poisoning isn't even effective, either.  
Mostly, he uses those storefronts as locations to fence his paperwork. But when the paper sales start flagging, but the herbal remedies sales start to pick up, he jumped on the latter.  
When the bunch of loons who worship the kaiju open a temple in a the skull of the dead one whose carcass had been left to rot on the south side of Hong Kong, he gets an idea.  
He has some people go down there and file away at some of the bones, and bring back the powder. His little herbalists--sweetest bunch of ancient, vaguely witchy Chinese women you could find--cut the bone powder with some household fillers, at what he thinks is a fair ratio--two parts bicarbonate of soda and one part aspirin powder to one part kaiju bone powder--and he bottles the stuff and puts it on the shelves.  
A few (very discreet) pamphlets and advertisements later, and the stuff is in such high demand that he had to have people truck out to every site where they'd killed a kaiju. They, of course, give the military operations a respectful distance--and then rip off everything they can carry the second they are gone.  
The shit flies off the shelves so fast he has to have them make up new stock of everything every week.  
And he was off. Soon he has an entire line of kaiju-oriented products, which he is proud to tell himself are usually harmless and occasionally even really helpful.  
It isn't even hard to harvest the stuff, anymore. Half the time, the governments of the countries where the damn beasts died didn't bother to send HAZMAT squads anymore. All the effort was devoted to relief, to cleaning up the aftermath--counting the bodies, the crushed buildings, the destroyed streets. The creatures' carcasses are considered least-concern.  
He hires people who wouldn't ask questions to pick over carcasses, and in a makeshift laboratory, he and a crew of assistants stand surrounded by table upon table of specimen, ammonia reek stabbing his nostrils as he slices through pearly-white tendon HERE, or carefully separates sheets of rock-hard, crystalline white-blue chitin from the blue-veined whitish flesh underneath, beautiful toxic-iridescent blue-black blood seeping everywhere. They bring in electric-cable-spools full of the beautiful shimmering blue cilia, each no thicker than a slender girl's wrist, and with higher tensile strength than steel cable. Hannibal runs his hands over the supple lengths, privately marvelling at the way they dimple beneath his fingertips. They soak them in ammonia and then coat them in high-grade polymers to preserve the surfaces.  
Soon he has enough to hire more underlings--usually Chinese university dropouts, the poor sobs being a dime-a-dozen. When he gets tired of the ones who keep botching samples or messing up specimens, he has his hands knock them out and put them aboard container ships going wherever. He rarely has people killed; he rarely _has_ to, with people dropping like flies--or rather, being stomped flat like ants.  
He doesn't like to think about it. He is a businessman, and his business is booming.  
He decides to redecorate, and sets up his personal laboratory with stainless-steel everything, and a big central drain channel running down the middle of the floor, covered with a fancy grate with a punched-metal design of Chinese dragons running over it.  
He keeps his prize specimens--things that mean something--in nice, backlit glass capsules all around the walls. The ceiling overhead is a dome backlit by yellow-greenish fluorescent lights, the glass etched with a map of all the world oceans, and kaiju rearing their heads from the centers of the major oceans.  
He keeps Onibaba's bigger claw in a cold-storage unit, and goes in there sometimes to glare at it. The bastard had taken a lot from him--his nice friendly business selling fancy pets; his even nicer business fleecing rich businessmen to get themselves and their families expedited papers; his view of the night skyline of Tokyo under the rain; the really, really swank apartment he'd just finished setting up for himself, above one of his favorite storefronts.  
All his 'secretaries', the artists responsible for the gruntwork of his paper business. All his nice little old Japanese ladies from his storefronts. All their children and grandchildren, to some of whom he'd ended up being Oji-chan Chau.  
He stares at the claw, and takes deep breaths of the cold air. He is not sentimental. He knows that all the revenge fantasies in the world can't bring back the people he's lost. He also knows it's bad form to actually, you know, give a damn about anyone. Business is business, he tells himself.  
In Hong Kong, he restyles himself, goes from being discreet and generous to the people in his protection, to flashy and close-fisted. He doesn't want to get to know the little old Chinese ladies too well; doesn't want to know the names of their children, their neices and nephews, their grandchildren.  
He feels like a damned fool, sometimes. All that paper, and he couldn't even rescue a few hundred people. His people took care of business for him, and he took care of them. He _knows_ he's not a good guy--but at the least, he'd consoled himself that he's always repaid loyalty with loyalty.  
He hasn't even been able to keep that, in the end.

A few months after Onibaba's carcass has been cut down into neatly-package-able pieces (mostly by himself and his crews) and shipped to safehouses to be evaluated, Stacker shows up.  
He comes in unannounced, and Hannibal's left and right hands shadow him, nodding at everyone they pass.   
They end up in Hannibal's newly-decorated office. He sees Stacker into one of the expensive red suede armchairs; his left hand offers Stacker some really primo Shanghai wine, and his right offers the man some sake that cost him a couple grand per bottle.  
Stacker politely declines both.  
Hannibal can see Stacker's eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks sunken. His skin--normally brown-red--is ashen, and Hannibal knows enough about the whole situation to know that he doesn't need to ask what the hell had happened.  
He starts to sit down behind the massive, ornately-carved red oak desk he's gotten himself as a feel-better present, but decides against it.   
Instead he stands, half-awkard, half-nervous, leaning with one hip against the desk and his arms crossed over his chest. The new suit's silk lining feels cold against his skin, suddenly.  
He waves his right hand closer; she pours him a glass of the Shanghai wine, which he takes a gulp of, without bothering with any pretended finesse.  
He never pretends in front of Stacker; they've known each other too long.  
He glances at his hands, and inclines his head.   
They nod and leave; the beautiful woodcut panel doors slide silently shut behind them.  
Once they are gone, Hannibal looks back at Stacker and tries not to look visibly nervous. He clears his throat, takes off the round-lensed black glasses, and sets them on the desktop beside his hip.  
"Been awile," he says.  
He's studying at Stacker without staring at him, taking quick darting glances.   
Stacker is the only other person he knows who can read people completely at a glance, like himself.  
He does not take the other man's skill for granted for a second. He waits, tensely, for Stacker to speak.  
"I was hoping to find you engaged in an actual scientific profession," Stacker says.  
Hannibal chuckles, and it is only a little forced.  
"Hey, well. What's the point of science at a time like this?"  
"You could take your resources and come help the program," Stacker says smoothly, and looks up at Hannibal with a face become like death.  
Hannibal feels the barest twinge of guilt.  
"Nah. You had to save my ass once, Pentecost. Isn't that enough?"  
"You tried to go straight once," Stacker says. He won't say Hannibal's new name, and the thought tickles the man pink. "Why not try again?"  
He almost wants to laugh. Of course Stacker wants to call him his other name.   
The one he has now is no less real; the other man had died a very long time ago, as far as he's concerned.   
"You know I can't do that. I got a business to run, people to terrorize. Kaiju bone powder to sell to rich mobsters who need a little extra kick. Want some? I'll tell you my secret ingredient," he offers, and flashes his best, most flattering crooked grin.   
He is accustomed to playing buddy-buddy to guys who have people killed for a living. It's not that hard, he thinks, to cater to someone who has to kill for the government and not for personal greed. All he has to do is tone down the asshole and tone up the friendly. He still remembers how.  
He continues, "I'll even sell it to you half-price. How does one gram for two grand sound? Hong Kong dollars, even."  
The sad ghost of a smile moves over Stacker's face, like a raincloud passing over a desert without dropping any water. Hannibal feels stupid and maudlin and he wants, in the little sliver of his brain that still thinks this way, to help this man who he very nearly considers his _friend_.  
"Kaiju bone powder? Now I've heard everything," Stacker says. "Do I want to ask what it does?"  
Hannibal shrugs easily. "Long-term? We're not sure yet. But you'll be high as a kite from the built-up ammonia. Guys like to think it makes your wedding tackle work like new, and I'm not gonna deny that sometimes it does that. Mostly gives ya an extra little bit of zip for a few hours. Gives ya wicked nosebleeds, though."  
"I get those easily enough nowadays without help," Stacker says, smirking, and Hannibal realizes this is the only in he's going to get.  
He doesn't take it.  
They are silent again. Hannibal drinks more of the wine.  
"So, then...what'll it be? What can I get for you?" Hannibal asks. He is trying to sound obliging, but he knows he is coming off as sharkish.  
Stacker sighs.  
"I'll be needing a few things, actually," Stacker says, carefully, and Hannibal watches him thoughtfully.  
Hannibal is perfectly aware that this is a formality; that Stacker could ask him for a human heart and he'd grumble (good-naturedly) and then come back with one gift-wrapped for him. Such are the things you do for the guy who pulls you out of a burning armored vehicle and doesn't ask where your tags went, doesn't bother with formalities, just cuts your melting armor off of you and waits with you for med-evac. You do whatever you can for this guy, because A) that's loyalty, and B) that's what you _do_ with someone who could easily have you over a barrel with how much they know about you.  
"Things such as...? You know I'm good for damn near anything," he says.  
He reaches into his suit, fishes up a large, elaborately-worked silver cigar case, and snaps it open to offer Stacker a thousand-dollar cigar.   
Stacker refuses, and Hannibal watches a muscle in his temple jump as he grits his teeth.  
"Hey, hey, come on. We've all gotta pick _something_ to die of, these days. Either you get stomped flat, or you let your vices roll you. Me, I'm a vice-lovin' kinda guy."  
He pauses and looks at Stacker, wondering how far is too far to push the other man. He already looks like he's about to fall over.  
What he _wants_ to say is, Come on, live a little. Yeah, heard about your sister; sorry about that, she was a badass bitch. Yeah, sorry about your rig, too, buddy.  
He did his research. He did a _lot_ of research. It came with the territory; know everything there is to know about someone before they even think to look you up. Analysis was power.  
Right now, his power is telling him that Stacker is already haggard, that if he needs _anything_ , Hannibal will grouse, but he won't say no.  
He fiddles idly with the stogie, considers snipping the end of and just letting it burn so he can smell the fumes. But Stacker is glaring at the cigar with something akin to fierce hatred, so Hannibal shrugs fluidly, pulls the case back out, and tucks the stogie in.  
"Suit yourself. Well, the stuff," Hannibal says, and pulls out his phone. "What can I getcha?"  
"Papers," Stacker says, and Hannibal raises his eyebrows.  
"Immigration forms...adoption forms...everything legal, mind you. I just...I need it expedited."  
Hannibal snorts. The man had looked as though he were about to ask for some heavy munitions rounds, tank shells or whatever. Things that are, you know, actually hard to come across.   
Paperwork is the easiest thing ever. Hannibal doesn't even mention a dollar amount. He considers himself very liberal for that.  
"Of course I can. I'll have 'em for ya in an hour. You said you wanted 'em good and legal, right?" And he slides his phone out of his pocket, taps his security password in, and in seconds is speaking in rapid, low Mandarin to one of his contacts--a man who also happens to work for an immigration bureau.  
Stacker shifts minutely in the chair.  
Hannibal finishes his call and hangs up, nodding at Stacker.  
"You tryin' to save some friends of yours from the next one that's guaranteed to come through here? Awful noble of ya," Hannibal says.   
It goess unspoken that moving anyone anywhere "for safety" these days is pointless. Each successive kaiju makes it farther and farther inland; soon, Hannibal knows, it won't matter how far from the coast people are--there won't be anywhere left to hide.  
He very diplomatically does not say this.   
Stacker is such a complete straight-arrow, he knows, that he'd still try to rescue them anyway.  
He's the kind of guy who'd pull a would-be dead soldier--an _American_ , even--out of a flaming vehicle, then see him off to the medics, and not say a word when that same American soldier reappears later, in Japan, with an assumed name and brand-spanking-new identity.  
Damn it, it's weird. But he's the only guy Hannibal feels even slightly loyal to.  
"Just...one person," Stacker says. "And I need papers that will get that person out of Japan, actually."  
Understanding clicks on in Hannibal's brain.  
"What's her name?" Hannibal asks. "This girl you're trying to rescue."  
And Stacker smiles, a real smile, sad and private, and looks down at his hands.  
"Mako. Mako Mori."


End file.
